Rice Queen
by atheneblue
Summary: Daryl Dixon knew he was not a man of restraint.  But this was one beast he wanted to keep caged.  M for language and dark sexuality.  GlennXDaryl
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This chapter rated M for strong (possibly offensive) language and M/M sexuality. Also, prostitution (?). I do not own Daryl or Merle Dixon.

oooOOOooo

At first Daryl had needed the illusion of femininity, the trappings. The girls on Stewart Ave., where Merle had dragged his little brother a dozen times before his twenty-first birthday, fascinated him. Particularly the ones that weren't girls. Merle had hooted and hollered at the "trannies", but, years later, Daryl would find himself riding into Hotlanta in the wee hours of a Saturday morning to cruise the particular part of the strip where the trade was a little bit rougher.

The pretty boys were not the ones who interested him, the runaways with dead eyes and pouting lips. Of course he had seen them and felt a surge of desire, as he sometimes did with certain men he met, but the idea of actually _fucking_ a dude, a dude wearing dude clothes...work-shirts and chinos and cowboy boots, wristwatches and buzzcuts and socks...

That was some crazy-ass faggoty shit.

No, Daryl preferred broad shoulders and trim hips swaying above high heels, tight asses shoved into skirts and club dresses and hotpants. He would stop and talk to them sometimes, the ladyboys, the cocks in frocks. They would lean merrily into the open window of his truck, teasing him about his backcountry twang and the grease under his fingernails. He spoke gruffly to them, trying to sound as masculine as possible; only later did he realize that his demeanor set their little rainbow-colored hearts fluttering.

"These bitches 'round here love nothin' more than a butch white boy," Rose would later purr. "Your cracker ass is like manna from heaven."

The first time Daryl caught sight of Tokyo Rose, he almost rear-ended the john cruising in front of him. Rose seemed to move in slow-motion, just a slip of a thing standing next to a parked car; she cocked her hip at the passing traffic and brushed the chin-length hair (which would prove to be not a wig but her own thick black locks) back from her high cheekbones. Daryl knew that some of the girls padded, but even from this distance he could tell that Rose was all natural. The scarlet club dress that clung to her figure draped fascinatingly down her chest in a silhouette that mitigated the need for breasts. She had just enough muscle, just enough curve. A dozen gold bangles on her wrists. Long-fingered hands that ended in a French manicure with gold tips instead of white.

The other girls stared and tittered to see Rose step into his truck, the first of their kind to do so. Rose's own smile broadened when the dome-light revealed his nervous face and tanned, muscular arms.

"Hey, baby," she drawled in a sultry, alto voice. "Whatchu lookin' for tonight? Pussy? I give great pussy."

Daryl had to laugh as he put the truck into gear. The other girls had told him about the trick some of the pros did, tucking themselves into tight folds between their thighs so that their dates could not tell it was not a real woman they were fucking. "If I wanted pussy, I'd be a couple blocks over, sweetheart."

Rose tossed her hair and smiled, pointing with one of her delicate, gold-tipped fingers to indicate where he should turn. "Tell Tokyo Rose what you like, boo." She cuddled next to him and grabbed his thigh. From this distance even Daryl could see that she was not Japanese, but south-east Asian: Vietnamese or Cambodian, maybe, one of those fucking jungle countries the US had napalmed back into the stone age. He could also see her adam's apple. He made another turn per her instructions and whispered through the fragrant waterfall of her hair what he wanted. She chuckled knowingly through painted lips. "That's extra," she informed him. Daryl's eyebrows jumped when she gave him a number, but she snuggled even closer and stroked the back of his neck, toying with his short-cropped hair. "But I think you wanted a real Asian girl tonight, am I right? You wanted a little Tokyo Rose." She hummed enticingly, her nails and the sound of her voice raising the tiny hairs on his nape. "'Cause there's plenty a' girls out there with the body-ody-ody, hm? But I've seen that look before," she explained, tapping his nose lightly. "You got a case of yellow fever."

Without answering, Daryl parked in the alley to which Rose directed him. He switched off the engine and killed the headlights. He turned his face to meet her dark eyes. Her hand traveled up his ribs and smoothed his broad chest. "You're just a big ol' rice queen, aren't you?" she purred.

A roiling swell of rage and lust filled his belly. He tensed and made a face. "My momma didn't raise me to hit girls," he warned, gripping the steering wheel hard.

Rose just laughed and peeled one of his hands from the wheel to guide it under her skirt. Five minutes later, he was sucking her dick.

It was the first of many times that Daryl would leave the garage with his Friday paycheck, go home to shower, and head for that honkytonk off 85 into the city, where he knew not a soul and could drink himself brave. Only then would he be able to face his own gray-blue eyes in the rearview as he headed for Stewart, for Tokyo Rose, nerves and lust and booze thrumming through him in an electric cocktail. He could almost smell her scent while he drove, hear her Jack-and-Coke voice, taste the lube from the brand of condoms she used in the back of his throat. It always ended the same way: her lips wrapped around his erection, putting to shame his own unskilled and fumbling attempts at fellatio moments before. One time he had beaten the piss out of a john who was giving her trouble, and the other girls had cheered and whooped when Rose kissed him on the lips, kicking up one heel like an old-time movie starlet.

"You should try comin' to see me without drinking first, boo," she had suggested afterward, in a moment of perspicacity. "I hate making out with Johnnie Walker."

"What, do this sober?" he had mumbled. "Fuck that noise."

Daryl Dixon knew he was not a man of restraint. But this was one beast he wanted to keep caged.

oooOOOooo

A/N: None of my tv boo Glenn in this one, obviously, but he will make an appearance in Ch 2. Hope you enjoyed some quality time with Daryl (Norman Reedus being the only guy I know who can pull off both Prada and Dickies so well...)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Welcome to the Glenn. This chap is oddly T, except for the language. I do not own the characters below.

oooOOOooo

_Goddamn the fucker for being a cheerful drunk_, Daryl was thinking.

"Crash with me, dude!" the kid had slurred, poking his head out of one of the CDC offices, that five-mile-smile lighting up his exhausted face.

Daryl stood in the doorway, contemplating the thousand-and-one ways in which this would be a terrible idea, while Glenn made a beeline for the shower in the attached bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt. He turned when he did not hear the older man following him into the room.

"What, are you bunking with someone else?"

Daryl shook his head slowly. The other single men, Dale, Shane and T-Dog, had claimed the office two doors down, and Daryl did not much cotton to spending the night (Lord only knew how many nights, actually) in a small room with them. Of course, doing the same with Glenn presented a whole different set of problems. Especially now that the kid's shirt was hanging open to reveal a boyish ribcage in a delicious shade of buttercream.

"Sweet." Glenn shrugged, as if the matter were settled. "I've got firsties in the shower, though." He toed out of his shoes and hopped into the bathroom while stripping off his socks. The kid dressed like his mom bought all his clothes for him at Penney's, but, despite the crappy sneakers and short-sleeved button-downs, Glenn's narrow hips always drew Daryl's gaze inexorably. The older man scratched the back of his neck, wincing. He tried to decide whether the kid's use of "firsties" was going to swell or quench the semi raised by the image of Glenn wriggling out of his clothes. Unable to resolve the problem, he settled into the office chair and tilted back, groaning at the aches in his battered body.

Through inebriation or indifference, Glenn left the bathroom door half-open. When Daryl swiveled to kick his boots up onto the desk and cross his ankles, he caught a glimpse in the bathroom mirror of the kid's strong slim back, naked skin smooth and beige in the flourescent light. Bourbon sparked fire in Daryl's windpipe, and he coughed, punching his quadriceps in vicious frustration. The shower switched on, and Daryl fought not to lean over to shove the bathroom door open farther. Letting his head loll back instead, he began humming the first song that came to mind.

"Justice is the one thing you should always find  
You got to saddle up your boys  
you got to draw a hard line_"_

He heard Glenn latch the shower door closed and let out a deep groan of sensual pleasure as the hot water hit 's eyes fluttered, his semi becaming a full-on erection. He hammered his thigh again and began to belt out the chorus.

"When the gunsmoke settles, we'll sing a victory tune  
We'll all meet back at the local saloon  
We'll raise up our glasses against evil forces  
Singing  
'whiskey for my men, beer for my horses'..."

"What is _that_ redneck crap?" Glenn called, his voice echoing against the bathroom tile.

Daryl swigged at the bottle of SoCo and tried to banish from his mind the image of water streaming down the kid's lithe frame. "What, they don't listen to Toby Keith in China?"

"Korea!" the kid insisted, rapping his knuckles against the glass of the shower door. "And I was born in _Georgia_, just like you, round-eye."

The older man chuckled. "Yeah, well, don't use up all that hot water, Dirty South." He began to relax. This was safer territory: drinking and busting each other's chops. "'Whiskey for my men_...'," _he sang softly.

A few minutes later the water shut off, and Glenn appeared in the bathroom door with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. Caught utterly unawares, Daryl clapped his hand over his eyes, then rubbed his forehead to cover up his unusual reaction to another dude's bare torso. Fortunately, the kid was too soused to notice. He walked across the main room to shut the door opening into the hallway. Daryl's hand dropped to his mouth; he struggled to ignore the way the kid's tight backside was clearly outlined by the terrycloth. Jacqui was passing by in the hall, and Glenn waved merrily at her, as if he were not standing there practically in his altogether.

"You drink a slew of water before you go to bed, y'hear me, Glenn?" the woman clucked.

"Yes, ma'am," the young man responded in the automatic reply of any child (black, white, brown, or yellow) raised south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Jacqui's eyes moved past Glenn. "Good night, Daryl," she said quietly. He felt strangely exposed under her gaze, as though she could see into the dark fantasies that lurked in the recesses of his soul, knew every filthy act he wanted to perpetrate on Glenn's slender frame. It was bullshit, of course. He raised his bottle in acknowledgement.

"Sleep tight, Jacqui," Glenn called gaily, then shut the door. He bent to rummage through his backpack, searching for a clean set of clothes. His skin looked soft as buttermilk against the stark white of the towel encasing his hips and thighs.

With an unconscious sneer, Daryl thumped the bottle down on the desk, let his feet drop to the floor and began to unlace his boots. The kid extracted a pair of jeans from his bag and sniffed them experimentally. Rising, Daryl unbuttoned his sleeveless shirt and threw it to the floor, baring himself aggressively. He undid his fly and stalked into the bathroom. Jeans, socks, shorts. He opened the shower door and switched on the water, trying not to think about Glenn checking out his tanlines in the mirror.

He could not restrain a moan of pleasure, not unlike the one Glenn had emitted earlier, when the hot water struck his skin. "Oh, hell yeah," he whooped.

"I know, right?" the kid called in agreement. He muttered something.

"Huh?" Daryl asked, working shampoo into his greasy hair. The water running down the drain was brownish. He wrinkled his nose.

"I said, 'I need to shave'."

Daryl snorted and ducked his head under the running water. He doubted there was much hair growth on any part of Glenn's body, much less his smooth face. Then he heard the sink running and realized the kid was serious. "Bra, you don't need to be handing sharp objects right now. You're fucking shitfaced."

"I'm cool, dude."

Daryl grunted noncommitally. He lathered his body with the liquid soap from the dispenser on the shower wall, feeling like a snake shedding an entire layer of skin as he sloughed off dirt and sweat and god-knew-what-else. He tried not to linger on his half-swollen prick, despite the flesh-colored blur of Glenn's body on the other side of the shower door's frosted glass. He wondered if rubbing one out might not make the next few hours a lot easier.

"Oh, man, I could totally go for a Chik-fil-a shake right now," Glenn announced suddenly. "Cookies-and-cream..."

Daryl had to laugh. "I think it's Sunday. They're closed."

"How come I only ever want a Chik-fil-a shake on Sundays?" the kid mused.

The older man shrugged, though he knew his companion could not see it. "Forbidden fruit, I guess."

oooOOOooo

A/N: "Beer For My Horses" by Toby Keith with Willie Nelson. This scene TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

All too soon Daryl was completely clean, and there was no reason for him to stay in the shower other than sheer hedonism. He filled his mouth and spat out a final spout of water, then shut off the tap.

That was when he realized his mistake: he had been so distracted by Glenn and his stupid, adorable body that he had forgotten to bring a towel into the shower with him.

"Fuck a duck," he cursed under his breath. Steeling himself, Daryl swung the door open and stepped, naked as a jaybird, out onto the bathmat. He pretended to ignore Glenn as he reached a towel down off the rack, but really every fiber of his body was focused on the kid standing at the sink in a pair of blue jeans, shaving-cream lathered all over his youthful jaw. Daryl dragged the terrycloth over his dripping body, masculine, indifferent, like a guy in a locker room.

"Ow. Shit." Glenn wiped the excess lather from his face with a handtowel, then leaned over to tear off a piece of toilet paper and dab at his neck.

"Fuckin' genius, you are," Daryl grumbled, wrapping the towel around his waist and turning to eye the substantial nick on Glenn's throat. The kid tilted his chin up obediently. "What is this, like your second time shaving? Christ on crackers." Daryl grabbed the wad of tissue out of the younger man's hand and pressed it against the cut, scowling. Blood bloomed in a scarlet flower through the paper. "Think you hit your goddamn jugular," he groused.

Glenn let forth a wheezing laugh, still staring up at the bathroom ceiling. "'Shaves Drunk'," he joked unsteadily. "It can be my Indian name."

Daryl lifted the soaked toilet tissue to see if the bleeding had slowed, realizing for the first time, in the haphazard fashion of drunken cognition, that he was only slightly taller than the younger man. His knuckles brushed Glenn's clavicle. The kid's skin was burning hot, still damp from the shower. He smelled like soap and shaving lather and a musk that must have been Glenn's own scent. A rivulet of blood escaped the cut and trickled down the younger man's neck.

Without thinking, Daryl leaned forward to lap up the trail of fluid with his tongue. He had moved on to nursing the nick itself when he realized what he had done. He stared over Glenn's shoulder into his own blue-gray eyes reflected, wide with horror and panic, in the mirror above the sink. His brain was screaming for him to get the fuck off, but the signal seemed to be taking aeons to reach his nerve endings.

Then, unexpectedly, Glenn sighed and cupped one hand around the back of Daryl's head. This simple, sensual reaction sent desire shooting through every cell of Daryl's body. He grasped the kid's shoulderblades, watching in the mirror how his fingertips dug into the smooth skin around the bone. He suckled Glenn's neck eagerly, as he would nurse a cut on his hand, but he would never stroke his own injured flesh so tenderly with his tongue. The salty copper taste of blood swept through his mouth and seemed to flood straight toward his groin. His hand slid down Glenn's back, ragged nails dragging angry red lines into the skin. To his surprise, the kid arched his hips against him and grabbed Daryl's towel-clad buttock, pulling their pelvises together.

"Oh, fuck," Glenn murmured slurringly. He released Daryl's ass to fumble with the fold that held up the other man's towel, his intent clear.

"Fuck!" Daryl echoed, flinging himself away and into the main room. He re-fastened his towel, then dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He took several deep breaths before he managed to turn and look at Glenn.

The kid was leaning back against the vanity, clinging to the lip of the countertop as if taking one step away from it would plunge him into an abyss. An almost ridiculous erection tented out the fly of his jeans. His hair hung down in shaggy, damp locks across his forehead. He chewed his full lower lip nervously. At least the bleeding on his neck had stopped. "I thought...Well, you-" Glenn's voice cracked, and he fell silent.

Grimacing, Daryl interlaced his hands behind his head, stomping up and down in front of the doorway. At last, defeated, he barked out a miserable laugh. "I am so fucking wasted," he grunted. That was when he realized that Glenn's almond-shaped eyes were roving over his exposed torso, lips parted in the distraction of desire. Daryl took a step forward and slammed his palm against the frame of the bathroom door. "What are you looking at?" he shouted. "Ya goddamn fa-"

But he could not finish the word, not with the kid's sweet face crumpling in pained anticipation of the slur; he seemed to Daryl, even with his anguish-ridden gaze, absolutely fucking adorable. The older man closed the distance between them and crushed his mouth against Glenn's pouting lips. His fingers tangled roughly in the younger man's thick black hair. The kid moaned and relaxed his jaw to allow Daryl's tongue into his mouth. He sucked the probing muscle eagerly.

It was not like kissing a girl, not even like kissing Tokyo Rose; the texture of Glenn's mouth was rougher somehow, although he had just shaved. He tasted of wine and liquor and tomato sauce. His hands roved over the older man's chest and belly, and Daryl let out a sobbing noise when the kid gently tweaked one of his nipples. His erection pulsed hungrily. At last Glenn broke from the kiss to bury his face in Daryl's neck, burning the tender flesh with his half-laughing, half-panting gasps. "Not gonna lie: this is definitely the most fun I've had in weeks."

"Ain't over yet, hon," Daryl drawled, kissing his way down the younger man's torso. "Goddamn, you sexy thing." He was on his knees and undoing Glenn's fly before the kid seemed to realize what he intended.

"Whoa, seriously? I...ohhhhh." What might have been a protest trailed off as Daryl carefully took hold of Glenn's shaft and caressed the velvet-smooth flesh. He placed his lips just around the tip, gingerly, and swirled his tongue once, unsure how much of this taste was unique to the kid's cock. He worked his mouth a little farther down. It was amazing to him how different this felt from Rose's condom-wrapped prick: so hot, so hard, and yet so soft at the same time. Daryl relaxed his throat, just like Rose had shown him, and drew the kid's entire length in.

"White boys rock," Glenn murmured deliriously.

Trying not to laugh, Daryl circled his fingers around the base of Glenn's cock and tugged gently on his foreskin to expose the sensitive head. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the kid's knuckles going white on the edge of the countertop. Daryl took a deep breath, let it out, then pressed forward until Glenn's tip nudged the back of his throat. Glenn moaned, almost theatrically loud. The older man pulled back with his lips and tongue, sucking hard. The kid's whole body swayed with him. Daryl wished he were better at this; he wanted to make it good, make the younger man beg for more and scream his name, but he simply did not know what to do.

_What feels good to you, baby? _Rose had asked him. _Do what feels good to you_.

It sounded easy, but Daryl had no idea how to do those little things that girls (and then Rose) had done to his prick to make him feel so good. With no better ideas, he sucked Glenn's length deep into his throat again and heard the kid groan with pleasure. Daryl's erection twitched with trimph and lust. Deciding to play to his strengths, he began to bob his head back and forth, softening his palate to allow Glenn's tip to snub against the back of his throat with each thrust. It was not the most technical of approaches, but it seemed to be getting the job done. Glenn was humming needily; he would gasp from time to time as the flat of Daryl's tongue stroked him. One of his hands was dancing just above Daryl's head, wanting desperately, the older man knew, to grab hold of his short-cropped hair and control the pace. He sped up in response, nervous of his teeth at this rhythm, lips and cheek muscles beginning to burn.

"Ohlikethatdon'tstop," the kid begged urgently. Daryl worked his cock at a frantic pace, and when Glenn suddenly froze, shuddering with pleasure, the older man let out a groan of joy to match the kid's own.

His prick throbbing with need, Daryl was wondering what else Glenn would let him do to his lithe frame, when the kid spurted into his mouth. Startled by the hot, thick, salty fluid, Daryl swallowed reflexively. He did not move for a moment, unsure whether swallowing another man's come would make him puke. Finding that his stomach had nothing to contribute to the dialogue, he happily returned his attentions to Glenn's softening member. He stroked and suckled it, observing the process with the familiarity of his own body's responses. He sat back on his heels to get the full picture: Glenn, mostly naked except for the jeans around his knees, flecks of spit and come in his pubic hair, bare chest heaving, one hand tangled nervously in the dark hair on top of his head. Daryl could think of at least eight acts he wanted to perpetrate on this poor kid and his gorgeous slim body.

"Christ, I _am_ a fucking rice queen," he muttered.

"Huh?"

oooOOOooo

A/N: Moar? Let me know!


End file.
